by Leslie North
He leaned forward. So did she. Just a few more inches, and he would be able to taste her.
A bulb flashed, nearly blinding him. “Much better!” crowed a too-cheerful voice. “Just keep that look up, and we’ll be finished with the session lickety-split.”
The door was wide open and the preening photographer stood on the threshold, peering at his digital camera’s readout in satisfaction.
“What happened to the lockdown?” Simon asked, leaning back toward his side of the loveseat, now imagining stuffing that camera into an even less pleasant place than he had thought about earlier. At least the arm of the chair had been between the camera and the hard-on Simon had been starting to get. Which was now quickly dissipating, thanks to the interruption.
“All clear,” called the guard from beyond the door belatedly.
Simon and Penelope stared at each other in consternation—but a hint of playfulness crinkled the corners of her eyes, and she looked much more relaxed than she had before. “Shall we finish our… conversation later?” she asked graciously.
Hell yes, they would. “Indeed,” he answered gravely, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his own shoulders too.
What an unexpected treasure this woman was. He’d come searching for a purpose, but he was starting to think he might have found much more than that.
5
It was Penelope’s wedding day, and by the time she got to the doors of the abbey, she honestly had no idea how it would end. Either she was going to walk down that aisle and marry Simon Stuart, or she was going to trip over her train yet again—Danovian clogs were neither funky nor chic, but a hazard in shoe form—face-plant in front of an entire church full of nobility, and then run until her legs couldn’t carry her any further.
She tried to take a deep breath but could only manage a shallow gasp. It was partly due to her panic, but also to the way-too-tight corset that was smothering her beneath her wedding gown. The dress itself was far too revealing, with a slit that reached nearly her mid-thigh and lacy fabric that hugged her curves. She might as well be naked. The palace’s PR department hadn’t even let her wear her favorite red lipstick, saying it was too much for a queen, and had limited the number of bangles she could wear because they thought she played with them too much. The only thing that felt just right was the ring from Simon’s family. It had finally been resized, and now sat snugly on her finger like it was meant to be there.
Simon himself felt like he fit, too. They’d done more research together over the last few weeks in preparation for the wedding today and the coronation in a few months, and it had brought back fond memories of her years of studying for her college degree. She was surprised to remember she actually loved research, especially the parts where they could brainstorm how they might change things once Pen was on the throne.
“Okay, let’s get a few more quick mother-daughter pictures in front of the doors,” called the photographer, snapping Pen out of her reverie. She kicked her train out of the way and pivoted, her mother swooping in to hover over her for some action shots.
“Mom, the dress is fine,” Pen said through her forced smile as the woman checked that her sleeves were staying straight and smooth for the hundredth time. Her mother murmured assent but merely moved on to fiddle with Pen’s earrings.
“Make sure you don’t stick your chest out, dear, you want to look regal and not like a slut.” Several more bits of rapid-fire Mom advice—aka passive-aggressive criticism—followed, each one undermining Pen’s confidence a bit more. Her mother had made no secret of her ambitions while Pen was growing up, and now that her only child was actually inheriting the throne she’d reached some scary new level of overinvolved. She finished today’s quiet rant with: “Just don’t make the same mistakes you made in middle school, and you’ll be fine.”
Middle school. Why did she have to bring that up? When Pen was twelve she’d decided to run for Prime Minister. The election had been the work of a well-meaning teacher, but it set off a cut-throat political battle amongst the well-to-do and upwardly mobile parents in the private Country Day School. Penelope’s mother badly wanted to win, but her obsessive coaching had the opposite effect on Debate Day when Pen froze and blurted out the first answers that came to her mind. She lost the election to her mother’s eternal dismay, but gained a reputation for being a quirky and endearing lightweight that had served her well through the years.
But all the quirk in the world wouldn’t help her today. She stood before the massive, intricately decorated doors of Eastman Abbey as just another citizen of Escona, but by the end of the day, she’d be married and Queen.
She tried not to hyperventilate.
The wedding planner approached. “Okay, thirty seconds til the walk down the aisle!” the woman chirped.
Pen clutched her bouquet, a mixture of Esconian roses and Danovian dahlias, and squared her shoulders. Time to buck up, buttercup. She’d decided this was what she wanted and she was going through with it. And an added bonus would be that after her coronation, she could gift her mother with a nice holding in the country, far, far away from Penelope. But even with that tantalizing thought, Pen’s knees were still shaking as the vast doors opened in front of her. She scanned the sea of nobility—all of whom were staring at her, measuring her up against their expectations—along with the cameras that were broadcasting to millions of viewers via the Royal Livestream, and found Simon. He stood at the front of the church, next to the priest, clothed in the dress uniform he’d proposed in. His expression was serious but his eyes crinkled the tiniest bit when her gaze found his, and that familiar almost-smile gave her strength. Today, she was marrying Simon. She would focus only on that.
She marched down the aisle by herself, handed off her bouquet, and took Simon’s hands. He squeezed her fingers lightly. His eyes shone and his almost-smile grew into a real one, small but undeniably there. He was excited about today. The thought eased the butterflies in her stomach a bit more, and she squeezed his hands back, surprised to find that beneath the nerves she was actually a little excited too.
She kept focusing on Simon while the priest rattled on about duty and love and God. When they finally got to read their vows, they felt right—strong and personal. Simon vowed to never stop supporting her in all she chose to do, and Penelope promised to build a home with him.
Then the priest said “You may now kiss the bride,” and every last one of the butterflies in Penelope’s stomach did a backflip. She’d forgotten about this part. Why hadn’t they practiced for it? Why did their first kiss ever have to be in front of millions of people? It was okay, it would be fine, it was just a kiss. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done it before with other guys.
But not with Simon. Somehow, he was different. She wanted this kiss to mean more, and her wanting made the stakes feel higher, which made her more nervous than ever.
She took a step forward to close the distance between them—and stumbled over her damn clogs yet again. Simon saved the day, his hands slipping around her waist to catch and lift her easily, his face tilting down to meet hers so it looked like a more-passionate-than-expected kiss rather than a stumble.
And then his lips met hers and she was no longer thinking about anything except the fact that she was kissing her new husband, and she never wanted to stop kissing her new husband. Her lips parted in surprise and delight as his mouth angled a bit deeper, sweeping gently over her lips, passionate and thorough. His light stubble felt rough and perfect against her cheek and she lifted a hand to brush her fingers against it. Up close, he smelled like cedar and old books. She took a deep breath, filling her senses with him, and her eyes slipped closed as his lips lingered on hers.
The audience erupted in applause—and, if she wasn’t hearing things, a wolf whistle or two. Pen pulled back, flushed and smiling stupidly. Simon blinked a few extra times himself, looking dazed for a second before setting her back on her feet.
Time to walk back down the aisle. She took a step and nearly trip
ped over her train again and, in a fit of vastly satisfying pettiness, kicked off her clogs. She would be a barefoot bride after all. She marched down the aisle, arm in arm with Simon, head held high as the members of the nobility smiled at the new couple.
She’d done it. She was officially married, and after the smaller ceremony later today, she’d be royalty too. And for the first time, with Simon at her side, everything about both those things felt completely right.
6
Simon had never been more grateful to sit down in his life than he was after his five-hour-long wedding. He’d long since had today’s schedule memorized, so he shouldn’t have been surprised, but there was a notable difference in reading about the hours they’d have to spend on Escona’s wedding traditions and actually living through them. This was the first time he and his new bride had been alone together all day, and also the first opportunity they’d had to sit for longer than a minute or two at a time.
The kiss, though. That had made all the pomp and circumstance worth it. He’d been wondering all afternoon what exactly the etiquette was for wedding nights with arranged marriages, but if Pen felt the same way he had when their lips touched, it would be a night to remember. Just one last meeting—this one with the lawyer—and then they would be free to do as they wished. And the only thing Simon wished to do right now was Penelope.
He remembered the way she’d looked at him and only him as she was coming down the aisle, ignoring the huge audience, the cameras, the noble guests. It had made him feel invincible, amazing. She was amazing. He couldn’t wait to show her how he was starting to feel about her, preferably with both of them as naked as possible. He’d kiss that spot on her shoulder blade—he’d noticed her shiver a little whenever he touched her there—and then slowly unzip that white dress, let her step out of it, press her against the door and worship her.
She flopped down at his side with a groan, interrupting his delicious fantasies, then winced and rubbed at her ankle.
“You okay?” he asked, clearing his throat, shifting to hide the beginnings of a hard-on and trying to think about anything other than her nude body with his cock buried deep inside. They still had one more meeting before that train of thought could go anywhere.
“I put the clogs back on after the wedding ceremony, but I can see why they’re not worn on the regular anymore,” she said ruefully.
Simon gave her a sympathetic smile. “Hey, the right pair of shoes can change your life. Look at Cinderella.”
She shot him a look. “Those things are no glass slippers,” she muttered.
He laughed. “True. Here, give me your feet, I’ll rub them for you.” Grateful, she scooted sideways and lifted her legs. He didn’t miss the little shiver of delight or the look that practically dripped with want when he wrapped his fingers around her arch and set her foot in his lap. When she dropped her head back and moaned as he started kneading, he had to hold himself back from tearing off her dress and taking her good and hard right there on the couch.
He gritted his teeth and tore himself away from the thought by sheer force of will. One more meeting. One more. “Thank you for wearing the clogs,” he told her. “It means a lot that you were willing to take part in a Danovian tradition for me. I know they’re not very comfortable.”
“Of course,” she said, and her tone was perfectly polite—but she shifted her foot just a little to the left so that it rested against Simon’s half-hard cock. She didn’t look at him, still blissed out with her head tilted back against the arm of the couch and her eyes closed, but a secret smile played at the corners of her mouth. Damn woman. How was he supposed to keep his composure now? Well, two could play at her little game.
He kneaded a little higher on her foot, moving to her ankle, brushing the hem of her dress out of the way to run his fingers across her lower calf. She muffled another moan when he started kneading there, and he grinned, triumphant. He went a little higher, his thumbs circling on that lovely, soft bronze skin of hers. It practically glowed in the light of the sunset through the window. He lifted her foot and kissed her ankle and she lifted her head, her eyes smoky with need as she met his gaze.
A knock sounded on the door. “Fuck me,” Simon muttered.
“Love to,” Pen murmured back, and his cock—now hard as a rock and aching—twitched in response. He gave her a long, smoldering look as he pulled her dress back down over her feet and crossed his own legs to hide his state.
“Soon,” he promised her in a low voice.
The knock sounded again. Both of them ignored it for a moment longer, then finally Pen cleared her throat and called “Come in” in a voice that was a bit lower and huskier than normal.
The lawyer entered carrying a huge stack of paperwork. “Here’s the marriage contract and additional paperwork for Simon,” he said, separating the documents on the table in front of them as he spoke. The marriage contract was only a few pages, but Simon’s paperwork was a massive pile.
“What is all this?” he asked, astonished.
The lawyer frowned at him. “You’ll need to abdicate all your connections and titles from Danovar in order to move forward. Being a lawyer yourself, I thought you’d know that.”
Simon flopped back in his seat, stunned. He’d spent so much time researching Penelope’s part in all this that he’d forgotten to look very deep into his own. He’d have to give up his titles? His claims to his grandfather’s ancestral home? The security of his ties to Danovar itself? How could he give up things that had been such huge parts of his identity for his entire life?
“Right,” he managed, staring at the documents.
Pen reached over and laid a hand atop his, watching him in concern. He swallowed and smiled weakly at her, some of his courage returning. This was what he was giving up his old identity for. If he wanted to truly support her, truly give himself to her and Escona—and he was taking her name, after all, as a symbol of his commitment to doing just that—then this was something he needed to do. Still, his hands were trembling a bit as he picked up the pen and started signing.
The lawyer scooped the papers back up when he was done and turned to walk out of the room. “The marriage will still need to be consummated before everything is binding,” he said dryly over his shoulder as he reached the door. “Have a good night.” And then he was gone, and it was just Pen and Simon—who could only stare at the table where he’d just signed his entire life away.
7
Pen wasn’t quite sure how much champagne she’d had over the last five hours, but thanks to her mother’s clucking little comments (“dear, that’s the third glass in an hour, are you sure that’s a good look for a queen?”) she was very sure it hadn’t been enough. It had at least taken some of the edge off the day, though.
Although it hadn’t been all bad. In fact, some parts of it had been downright magical. She couldn’t deny that walking barefoot down the aisle in Eastman Abbey had been unexpectedly delightful, or that the look in Simon’s eyes just now had had her wanting to jump his bones right then and there. In fact, he’d been the best part of all today. It was everyone else that was the problem. It was the judgmental murmurs, the blatantly assessing eyes, her mother’s “helpful” comments whispered in her ear—she’d actually said Pen would have to “do better” at her next royal event, and she hadn’t even bothered to whisper. The whole reception had been nearly unbearable. The décor, food, and music were beautiful, of course, but she’d barely known anyone there and had been hard-pressed to even make small talk. It ended up feeling more like a political convention than a celebration of love. But at least the cake had been good, Pen supposed.
Plus, now she got to make love to her new husband. And what a hunky husband he was. She stared at him across the couch from her and had a sudden, physical need to finally see what was under those starched shirts of his. Boldly, she leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” she said. The words came out a little more slurred than she’d intended. Maybe her mother had had a
point about the champagne after all. Not that she’d ever tell her that. And anyway, all the bubbles were helping immensely with what could’ve been a very awkward evening. Pen didn’t even care about the judgmental looks anymore. She just wanted to see her husband naked.
Simon stifled a smile. “I’d assume it would be kind of hard not to, seeing as it’s our wedding day.”
She ran a finger across his chest, which was sadly still hidden under a shirt. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about you for weeks. Ever since we met. The look in your eyes when you talked about that treehouse—it bowled me over. You looked so… passionate. I want you to look at me that way.”
His eyes turned a little smokier. Much better than the way he’d looked at the sketch of the treehouse. But he didn’t take off his clothes the way she wanted him to. “Have you had a bit too much champagne?” he asked instead.
She scoffed. “Of course not. Well, maybe. But trust me, it was necessary. Did you hear my mother?”
He winced. “I did. I’m sorry. If it helps, I think you did wonderfully today.”
“Not nearly as good as you. You were amazing. You remembered everyone’s names, had the schedule memorized, and most importantly you didn’t nearly trip on your own train and fall flat on your face in front of a chapel full of nobility. Not to mention the millions of audience members on the Live Stream.”
“To be fair, I wasn’t wearing a dress.”
“Well, you’re wearing far too much clothing now.” Tired of beating around the bush, she reached out and, with one hand, unbuttoned Simon’s shirt. “Want to try that kiss again?